


prompt fill: ancient greece temple altar boys

by kingsoftheimpossible



Series: tumblr prompt fills [6]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 06:01:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1255525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingsoftheimpossible/pseuds/kingsoftheimpossible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>short tumblr prompt fill: Harry always goes missing on festival days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	prompt fill: ancient greece temple altar boys

Maybe it doesn’t really count as  _missing_ if Louis always knows exactly where to find him. 

It’s the second day of the Hyakinthia, and the field surrounding the temple is already swarming with revelers setting up their tables and games. A few children stand at the foot of the marble stairs, watching with huge eyes as Louis carries the polished bronze bowl of morning offerings between the pillars. They whisper between themselves, and he can catch bits of their conversations on the wind-

_Are those the Mysteries? I can’t wait til I’m chosen for a temple. You won’t get chosen; your father’s just a baker! Is he carrying Mysteries? Besides, you’ve got to be pretty!_

Louis purses his lips, trying not to laugh at the little tussle that breaks out. Their high young voices remind him of his gaggle of sisters- maybe that’s why teaching the children has always been his favorite part of serving.

He reaches the stairs that descend beneath the temple, into the heart of the altar. He can’t burn the offerings without Harry, but that won’t be a problem.

Harry’s right where Louis knew he would be, kneeling before the great bronze and gold statue of Apollo, fingers tracing the reliefs depicting all the history of Amyclae. When Louis clears his throat loudly, Harry startles a bit, wincing away from the wall and pulling his hand back as if he’d been burnt. 

"Just me," Louis says quietly, and Harry turns to look at him with huge green eyes, the tiniest bit red-rimmed. He smiles, but it’s wobbly and watery and if it were anyone but Louis he wouldn’t bother. Louis feels his own shoulders slump and he sighs with a sort of fond exasperation he’s perfected over the past few seasons. "Oh, H, again?"

Harry laughs, a sad, wet sound, and pulls his chiton fabric up to wipe at his face. “‘s stupid, I know,” he murmurs. “It’s just my favorite story.”

Louis’ nose wrinkles and he sets the bowl at the base of the altar, settles down to sit beside Harry and examine the figures he’s seen every day for a good part of his life. “Why is it your favorite? It’s  _miserable,”_ he admonishes, bumping his shoulder against Harry’s until Harry laughs again and shakes his head in defeat.

"I don’t know, Lou, it’s just- it’s beautiful, and romantic-"

"And _sad_ ,” Louis cuts in, rolling his eyes. “Besides, you’ll get enough of it later today when we have to _be_ it.”

Harry dimples up at that, leans down and over to tuck his face in the crook of Louis’ neck. “I’m really nervous,” he admits, and Louis can feel the way his cheeks are heating up at the thought.

He shrugs, careful so as not to bump Harry around too much. “Don’t be, love. You know this story by heart.”

"And you?" Harry asks, shifting closer to Louis until their sides are pressed warm together against the chill of the dark altar room. 

Louis bites his lip at the question, leans down to bury his nose in the thick nest of Harry’s curls. “And I know you by heart.”

* * *

 

The sun is high when the misterium begins, and the assembled crowd is loud and drunk and in love. Louis understands that.

The story only needs the two of them, really- Louis with his skin flecked gold by the special paint of the Mysteries, Harry with his white chiton hanging low off of one shoulder, all dimples and long lean muscle as he sprints across the field with Louis chasing him, laughing like a child, or a young man in love. When Louis catches up to him, rolls him in the high grass until they’re both dizzy with it, until Harry’s pale skin is spotted with Apollo’s gold, the onlookers sigh wistfully, murmur  _beautiful, beautiful, praise Apollo._

The matron priestess, in her deep old voice, begins the recitation of the tale as they act it out for the assembly- the beautiful boy and the lovestruck god, the jealous wind, the accidental death, the rebirth. 

Louis feels his heart swell in his chest, beating madly, because that’s the whole point- amid all the horse racing and war games- to show them the love of Apollo, the beauty and grace. And Louis  _is_ Apollo, for now, for another year, at least.

Harry gasps beneath him, breathless, eyes bright and pupils blown. He mumbles, heavy-tongued, “ _Hie, hie, Apollo_ ,” just loud enough for the gathered spectators, and they call it back in one great voice. 

Louis rolls off him, to his feet in one swift motion, and he pulls Harry after him. Harry pulls the discus from Louis’ belt, holds it up high for the audience’s inspection. There’s a collective gasp, and Louis’ chest aches when he hears a small girl cry out a warning for Harry-

"No, Hyakinthos! No!" 

Harry meets Louis’ eyes and Louis can see his heart breaking a bit, but he’s still smiling broadly with his red lips and pink cheeks, and Louis is happy for once that the gods have gone silent, that they no longer sweep down from the heavens to tear away beautiful things. 

They break apart until there’s half a field between them, and Harry slings the discus with one mighty twist of his upper body. Louis jumps, catches it easily, and the crowd whistles their approval. 

"And so the West Wind, in his jealous rage, interfered in the game," the matroness recites, "and the hero fell."

When Louis throws it back, Harry moves carefully, a trick of the eye, so he appears to be struck down by the discus, and when he falls to the earth the crowd wails. 

Louis understands this, too, because seeing Harry in all his youth, laid out in the grass with his eyes closed like the dead- it’s more than even a god could bear. He reaches Harry’s side, sinks to his knees and rests his forehead on Harry’s bare chest. 

To the audience, Harry has become the dead hero, but Louis can feel his heart beating strong and hot behind his ribs. The temple girls come forward, bearing baskets laden with the sweet purple hyacinths, and they deposit them around the still forms.

The other youths of the temple lead the crowd in one of the worship songs of Apollo while Louis and Harry recover and rise to their feet. Harry’s covered in deep purple petals, tangled in his hair and tucked inside the folds of his clothing. They fall to the ground as he moves, comes to stand in front of Louis with their foreheads pressed together.

"You didn’t even _cry_ ,” he complains, sounding upset, but Louis can see the way his eyes sparkle with the laughter he’s withholding.

"Maybe if you were prettier, I’d cry," he teases, reaching up to pull a few flowers out of Harry’s fringe and tuck them safely in the curls beside his ear instead. "It’s just hard to believe a god would fall in love with _you_ , of all people.”

"Is it?" Harry asks, thumbing pointedly at the gold paint smeared across Louis’ high cheekbones.

Louis would answer, but then Harry’s kissing him, and the crowd is singing and laughing for them, and there are flowers everywhere. 


End file.
